Respite in Abandonment
by LionsLamb
Summary: Alice's bday party. Bella is there with her new beau, Jacob. Edward reflects on their relationship as he sees his love in the arms of hers. But Jacob and Bella's embrace is not as it appears; it's not Jacob's name that is sighed by Bella. B/E angst, smut
1. Painful Reflections

**A/N: Also posted over on . Check out .com, too. It's awesome. **

**My first attempt at writing Edward. And review, please. Even flames. Written at 2:30am on a lonely, dark and cold Tuesday night in London, England. **

I knew she was here before I saw her.

My physical reaction is immediate – my body's demeanour changes completely; my head rises, my neck extending over the crowds to search for her honest, wide face; my hands start to run through my hair in anticipation to reciprocate her warm, gentle touch; my heartbeat speeds up, desperately aware of the blood pumping through it, pushes warm redness up to my pallid cheeks, and making me feel alive once more; I move onto my tiptoes, desperate to meet her gaze – which would, in another world, also be seeking mine.

But though I see her beautifully symmetrical face, her warm chocolate eyes are not looking for me – they are looking up at her companion, the Jacob she had gushed about to Alice, who had graciously told me not to expect anything this evening.

This evening: the evening we were celebrating Alice's birthday, the evening I had anticipated for the last two months, the evening which I had planned on telling Bella exactly how I felt about her, the evening where my body was split open, my heart torn out and squashed into the cold, hard floor beneath my feet.

Jacob is attractive; I cannot deny it, even though I want to be able to – a reason for her not to be with him. But even I cannot recognise his beauty; his cheekbones are broad, a strong jaw balancing them out, his eyes are nearly black, but not a cold shade, for a constant smile colours his expression, crinkling his facial features and making them markedly friendly. His hair is long and black and shiny, the styling reminiscent of the frat boys of today, and hangs loose, nearly touching his shoulders in a casual wave. He is tall – taller even than Emmett, I imagine, and broadest, his shoulders wide and limbs long; he could pick her up effortlessly, I think. His torso is narrow compared to his top half, and her slim arm is consistently slung around his waist – probably the only part of him she can reach around.

Well, probably not the only part.

My heart dies slightly.

Lovemaking between Bella and I was beautiful – there was no other word for it. I'm not a pussy lovemaker, that's for sure, but our procreation always held something behind it, something that didn't stem purely from unadulterated lust for one another's bodies. No, even when I would bend her over, and take her roughly from behind, our love for each other was evident in every touch, every caress of the other's heated skin.

The chemistry between them, the tall, handsome Indian and his short, curvy brunette girlfriend is palpable. There is no doubting that they have slept together. There is no doubt that he has touched the same skin, kissed the same intimate places, loved the same tender parts as I have. There is no semblance of doubt in my mind, no blissful vision of ignorance that she has not moaned the same moans, gasped the same breaths and climaxed with the same vigour as she did with me.

She was always a little minx. Even our first time, when we fumbled and sweated and giggled and apologised, she knew what she was doing, knew where to touch me to get me hot and flustered. She knew where to go, what to do – she had been on top, for Christ's sakes. She had kissed me once, guided me in, enveloped me gently in her warmth, risen up again and speared herself onto my length, releasing a guttural moan; so different to the hushed, pleasurable giggles of our clumsy fumbles in the dark of her bedroom.

And then, once we had gotten the hang of each other, did you teach me how to pleasure you, how to make you groan my name, whether it be a simple gesture, like kissing your neck, or a more overt one – I know my teeth clamping down onto your earlobe never failed in making you bite your bottom lip vociferously – a sure-fire signal that I was getting you going.

We had fun sexually, there was no question; as we became older, more experienced, our sexual tastes grew. We played around with role-play: costumes and bondage – I thanked Rosalie and Alice desperately for those experiences. Every month, as your Cosmo came, we would try something scarily new, whether it would be a new sex toy – the vibrations intimidated me, but simply made you giggle in pleasure – or a new position. These new explorations were my favourite. I got to discover new areas of skin on your body, never touched by another man before me, and found your unfounded pleasure spots – the delicate skin behind your knee, the sensitive whorl at the back of your ankle, even the cute dip of your belly button.

All of those places provided you with pleasure, and me with a new snippet of information of how to entrance you.

But we didn't just have sex. We loved, god, how we loved.

Although the physical climaxes we received from our fucking were more intense, our emotional peaks were always the more powerful for me. You didn't know this – I would have died rather than tell you – but every time we truly love (thank god Emmett can't read my mind) I would wrap you in my arms afterwards, your pale body sprawled delicately across mine, and cry into your hair from the sheer happiness of your presence in my life.

If I had told you, I think now as I watch you laugh as you in Jacob's arms, you would have reacted in two ways. You were always so unpredictable - one of my favourite qualities of yours. You could have either laughed disbelievingly and brought _me_ into _your_ arms, reassuring me that you felt the same way, or simply have confessed that you felt the same way about me.

In retrospect, I wouldn't have minded either one.

In retrospect, I wish I had told you.

Although I don't think it would have stopped you from leaving.

Those days, those painful days after your departure to him – to _Jacob_ – were like nothing else. Alice and Emmett forcefully transported me to my parents' house, where Esme left plates of food outside my locked and closed bedroom door, while I cried and smashed and cried and shouted and cried.

I considered returning to my troubled adolescent trait of drawing a blade across my skin, and watching the blood slowly seep out of the straight lines. But I was still so aware of blood, having spent so much time around you. I was still so careful of spilling blood, whether you were there or not.

Funnily enough, it was blood that initially really brought us together – your fainting spell in Mr Banner's biology class, during the blood drive – the fainting spell that caused Mr Banner to send me with you to the nurse's office.

That was the first time I felt brave enough to speak to you – to really speak to you. That titbit of information (your fear of blood) was enough to make me realise my obsession with you. For it was that afternoon that I asked you out for the first time. It was that fainting spell that started our relationship. The spark that kindled the fire, if you'd excuse my lame analogy. (You always did, after all.)

I watch you now, from my vantage point where I stand by the bar, leading Jacob out onto the dance floor, laughter in your eyes.

A swig of scotch is a lame attempt to lessen my pain; instead, it just makes my eyes water and my throat burn. I taught you how to dance – that first prom – the night that I realised that I would never let you go.

Little did I know that you would let me go.

You stood on my feet in those ridiculous heels that Alice had put you in. Little did you know how radiant you looked that night, in the midnight blue that I favoured so. Little did you know that I was masking a raging hard-on behind those tux trousers after seeing your bare leg in those stilettos, your teasing naked shoulder, tantalising curve of your breasts and the titillating line of your shoulder blades beneath the gauzy fabric, wafting ethereally around you.

You were a vision that night, as you are tonight.

The black dress you are perfectly sporting is tighter and more risque than the clothes you wore when you were with me. And no matter which way I look at it, it's a good thing.

A good that thing you've finally gained the confidence, recognised your beauty enough to show your curves in the figure-hugging, satin-y fabric.

A good thing that you feel comfortable enough in yourself to show off your body in front of the man you love.

I finished the glass of scotch in my hand and rested my head on the bar, in utter despair, releasing a sigh saturated with pain.

A small hand rested on my back, spreading warmth through my abdomen. There was a flash of rapid thought in my mind, of how it would be you, how you would murmur quietly in my ear that could we go somewhere, anywhere and talk. How sweet your voice would sound! We would discuss our problems, you would apologise, I would forgive you, of course, and then I would walk you home, kissing you lightly on the lips at your front door, before turning to leave, walking down one step. The same hand that was currently on my back would be placed on my arm, and would turn me around sharply. And then your arms would wrap passionately around my shoulders and pull me closer to you, your lips feverishly on mine.

And whom would I be to refuse your offer?

I'd pick you up, and carry you over the threshold like a bride and groom (my heart clenches in agony at the loss of that opportunity) and carry you through the apartment to your bedroom, where I'd lay you down gently on the bed and ravish your face with kisses as you squirmed and squealed beneath me, trying desperately to do requite my actions.

"Edward?"

Alas, my fantasies were to no avail – it was my sister's voice that spoke my name.

"Edward?" she pervaded my senses again and I turned lazily around to her, anguish furrowing my brow and turning my mouth into an unhappy frown.

"Oh, Edward." Alice sighed at my expression and I rested my head on her shoulder.

I didn't mind this public display of emotion. Bella was too wrapped up in Jacob to really notice anything else, and she was the only person whose opinions mattered to me.

Guilt did reach me, though, when I remembered that it was Alice's birthday party I was attending.

"Happy birthday, sis." I mumbled as I lifted my head from her delicate shoulder. She placed her palm on my cheek tenderly and smiled pityingly.

"You've said that a thousand times." She spoke briskly, as she always did. My older sister's bossiness was something that had irked Bella, I knew. Bella, who preferred to sit around in her old jeans and t-shirts than be dragged around by--

"Stop, Edward." Alice's sharp tone surprised me, and my gaze flickered back to my dark-haired sister, "stop thinking about things that will never happen."

The latter phrase was spoken with more compassion, which I was thankful for. I don't know how much more pain stemming from other people's honesty I could deal with.

My family had tried everything to rid me of this anguish, this formidable sense of loss and totality. Carlisle had tried anti-depressants; Esme referred me to a therapist. Alice had tried another kind of therapy – retail. Emmett had stayed, steadfast, as a constant, yet silent, support and beer supplier. Tanya, my god sister, had been a shoulder to cry on, and it was her arms that often welcomed me – into comfort, and into bed.

We both had broken hearts. Her love, Felix, had left her for a teenager he'd knocked up – who was half Tanya's age. Instead of turning to drugs or alcohol, each of us turned to the mutual comfort of sex. While wallowing in our respective problems, neither of us seemed to notice that it was not the other's name that was called at the climax.

Her groans and pleas for release were directed her lost love. My sobs of pleasure were always to you, the striking brunette far from me, on the other side of the room this evening.

We both knew that we were self-destructing, but neither of us knew how to escape the vicious cycle that constituted heartbreak.

"Edward," the soft, lulling voice of my sister cooed into my ear, "she's watching you."

My eyes snapped up to scan the room, but there was no pair of shining chocolate eyes to meet mine.

"Who?" I asked sharply, irritated at having my hopes dashed. Again.

"Tanya," Alice said, jabbing me in the ribs with her pointy little elbow. It felt like being poked with the sharp end of an umbrella.

"Oh," I returned, disinterested, to my drink.

"She wants something from you. She's coming over…" Alice's voice faded and was replaced by another, deeper and huskier – much more alluring.

"Edward, shall we retire?"

My eyes shifted from the mahogany surface of the bar (such a similar colour to her shining hair) to the magnificent woman standing in front of me. Tanya, at first glance, appeared to be a heartbreaker.

An amazon of a woman, she was stunningly sexy; her lips were pouted and painted a crimson red; her matching scarlet dress led a daring line from the shallow dip of her collarbones to her inviting cleavage; her warm, golden hair curled gently to the curve below her breasts; her torso was flat and lean, her waist fine and curved; her legs were long and toned and flexible. Many a time she would wrap them around my waist, thrusting me deeper into her, or bring her knee over my shoulder, facilitating easier penetration. Often I took her from behind, letting my animalistic side take over (releasing my fury at my inability to cope with loss), so that I would not see her face, not feel the familiar guilt that would creep up my spine when I would moan Bella's name instead of my lover's.

I was aware of Alice's vivid green eyes – the same shade as mine – flitting between Tanya and me. They were narrowed, and she obviously suspected something – and not something in a positive light.

"Not tonight, Tanya. I'm sorry."

Her face fell, and the glamorous façade crumbled. Women like Tanya appeared confident to those who did not know any better; they channelled their insecurities into making men want them, and by simply letting them have them. Tanya was not known as 'Tartya' in our family for unfounded reasons, that was for sure.

The luscious red lips opened from their downward curve and spoke. "Call me when you need anything. I'll need it, too."

I looked up at her tragically beautiful face, her turquoise eyes staring directly into mine. I could see that she was welling up with tears, and nodded solemnly in agreement.

She smiled a simpering smile at me, shook her head once to rid herself of emotion, and, head held high, strutted off through the crowds of people, drawing men's lustful gazes as she left.

Alice and I both stared after before we saw the glass of the bar door shine in accordance with its opening and shutting.

I dropped my gaze back to the bar ledge and motioned with a slight beckoning to the barman, for another scotch. Alice turned on me.

"What was that?" she asked pointedly, her hands on her hips.

Without even bothering to mumble a lame excuse for an answer, I took another sip of the cool drink, letting it carve a trail of fire down my throat and turned back to my petite sister – the smallest member of the family by at least three inches. Carlisle had passed the height of his Czech heritage onto his sons, who were both well over six feet. Alice had inherited Esme's English genes, which meant that she was miniature, barely reaching up to Emmett's elbow. A comedic sight, but Alice's height was the main cause of her insecurity.

"Well?" she demanded once more, hands on her hips, her toe tapping in a menacing fashion.

"Alice, I needed comfort, and Tanya was an easy route out of my misery." I spoke plainly, swivelling around on my barstool to face my sister's concerned gaze.

"What kind of comfort, Edward?" she asked, her eyes closed as if fearing the worst.

"What kind do you think, Alice?" my voice became irritated and grated against my sensitive heart. This was not the man that I knew myself to be while I was well and truly alive.

Suicide had been an option for me at some point. The bliss of leaving everything behind, never having to worry again, never having to see her face happy, without me.

God, I'm a selfish bastard.

The one thing – the only incentive I had was my family. Alice was engaged to Jasper – a friend of mine from the practice -- and they were blissfully happy. Emmett had been married to a cast off of mine, Rosalie, for three years. They were blissfully happy. And my parents – the unfaltering force of love that kept me going. Oh, and they were blissfully happy, too.

To some, it might appear that my family's happiness only added to my own misery. But this was not the case. I was not that selfish. Seeing other people happy made me mourn what I once had, but also made me feel some form of hope, that soul mates really did exist, and that Bella would one day come back to me – because we were each one half of the same whole.

I glanced back at my sister, whose tender expression had now transformed into one of hurt and fear.

"I'm sorry, Ali," I used my childhood nickname for her to appease the situation, "I'm just--"

Her thin arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me close into her. I inhaled her familiar scent – green tea and soft, musky perfume and rosewood – and closed my eyes, trying to prevent the tears from falling onto her striking emerald green dress.

"It will get better," she whispered fiercely into my ear. "You will find someone else."

This pissed me off. The pure reason behind my desolation was simply that I didn't want anyone else. The 'someone else' was the same person that I had loved for my whole life – there was no one else.

My incredulity was apparent on my face because Alice frowned playfully and flashed me her impish little grin and patted my cheek and said, "don't sorry. She'll come back."

My mouth was open, ready with some hopeless retort, but Alice was already dancing away in her high heels, meeting and greeting our friends and family like the social butterfly that she was, all the while heading over to Jasper, who was chatting to Carlisle.

It was strange, Jasper and Alice's relationship, for they seemed to have no binding similarities except for loving the other. Alice was an extrovert, letting everybody know her opinion, her emotions, her beliefs, while Jasper was the epitome of an introvert. He spoke only when necessary, his huge influence stemming from his lack of speech, despite his overwhelmingly reassuring presence.

Funny how things work out, isn't it?

I scanned the crowd, my eyes flicking from each dancing couple to try and find the only one who spurred my interest. I saw her standing in the corner with Jacob and wanted to look away as I saw what they were doing.

Standing in a dark nook of the bar, Jacob had her up against the wall, pushing hard against her. Bella's heeled legs were wrapped around his waist, her head tipped backwards in the throes of passion as he sputtered kisses up and down her creamy neck.

I felt dirty, voyeuristic, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. This Bella, openly demonstrating insinuations of passionate sex in the corner, was not my Bella, who would blush furiously if I even kissed her on the lips in front of my family. Not that Esme and Carlisle cared – they were thrilled that I had somebody to show off and love desperately.

I watched in horror-struck disgust as Jacob's hand moved itself from around Bella's waist, holding her against the cold stone wall, to underneath the folds of her dress, between her legs. He glanced quickly around, before a slight shift forward in his stance told me that he was fingering her. In public.

I was disgusted at both Jacob's crude behaviour and Bella's willingness to accept his offerings. My fury bubbled beneath my skin – it wasn't fair that, at my _sister_'s birthday party, people didn't even have the common courtesy not to fuck in the corner, whilst there were grown adults present. Disgusting.

My feet hit the floor as I jumped off of my barstool, my adrenaline pumping as I planned to walk up to them and perfectly civilly, to ask them to continue their administrations outside the party's confines.

But what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

Jacob was obviously a master at sex – his whole body seemed to exude the predatorial instincts of a dominating lover – and Bella's reactions demonstrated that fact. His body loomed over hers, supporting her whole weight with one large hand underneath her firm ass as he used the other to pleasure her.

I know that Bella was close. I know her reactions like the back of my hand. Her chest thrusts forward slightly, her eyes open blankly, her delicious mouth forms a delicious 'o' shape and her head falls backwards. Then, as she recovers from the orgasm, her chest relaxes, her eyes close blissfully, her head falls forward onto the ministrator's shoulder and her hips grind against the stimulator, desperate for an extended release.

It is during that time that she calls out her lover's name. My name, tumbling from those glorious pink lips in the throes of passion was one of my favourite sounds, accompanied by her sleep talking and sighs of contentment, as she lay against me in a blissful slumber.

Mentally, I prepare myself for the warping of my favourite sound and sights – Bella coming. I want to close my eyes, but my gaze is riveted on the couple. From Bella's lips will fall the same moans of pleasure that I used to orchestrate, but instead of my name being breathed out in a musical release, it will be Jacob's.

My body braces itself for real emotional pain as I watch the telltale signs of Bella's climax.

There goes the tensing of the body, the tip of the head back.

Now for the name, the name that should be mine; I can see, in my head, Bella's lips forming his name: the purse of the 'j' and the smack of the 'b' are clearly, painfully imagined, but soon to become the tragic reality.

But what I see is not what I so dreaded. For Bella's mouth does not utter the man currently pleasuring her's name…

No, her mouth forms similar shapes – shapes which I have seen countless times over the years.

Out of her delicious lips tumbles a breathless, but explicit "Edward."

**Kleenex? Anyone?**


	2. Failure of an Epiphany

_**Previously: **_

_Out of her delicious lips tumbles a breathless, but explicit "Edward."_

I froze, standing stock still on the elevated, polished wooden ledge separating the bar and the dance floor. The stares I was receiving from the carefree dancers, consisting of my extended family and friends, were all full of surprised confusion – I was showing emotion, for the first time in months. Those who knew me were utterly perplexed, their heads spinning around to look at my bewildered expression.

She had said my name.

My name.

Me.

She was thinking of _me_.

My mind -- which before had simply been trundling along at a snail's pace, never accelerating or showing any signs of joy or excitement, working dispassionately -- was now whirling, alight with possibilities of love, sex and completeness.

I felt alive – a sentiment I had not experienced in the long months after her break-up.

All of my insides, which had previously been sunken, acting as a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach, were seemingly floating in the cavity of my body. A flush of blood spread from the tips of my toes to the ends of the tendril of my hair in a delicious, effervescent wave of _feeling_.

And it was wonderful.

My heart had transformed from being a leaden mass in the abyss of my being to an alive, beating, vivacious organ, intent on keeping me alive and well for the brunette beauty on the other side of the dance floor. A blush of colour coloured my cheeks, which had before been sallow and pallid, and I knew that my eyes were alive and utterly focused on her – my requited love.

A shot of adrenaline was coursing through my veins, and I started to move towards her, dodging quickly between the entwined, dancing couples, my gaze never straying from Bella, who was now being let down by an attentive Jacob; her head was forward, her hair covering her face as she concentrated on maintaining her balance in her high shoes.

She didn't see me coming.

I whizzed past the crowded bar tables in a series of hops, skips and jumps whilst ignoring the horrified stares of my father and sister, before I found myself standing in front of Jacob and Bella, my palms towards her, fingers splayed and feet spread, cutting a slightly terrifying and dishevelled figure.

But I knew that, despite my appearance, my eyes would show my true feelings – they always had, as she regularly told me. I knew that my irises, previously glassy and disinterested, were burning a vivid green, alight with my adoration for her perfection.

A change in the background music's key seemed to be my cue. Bella's liquid eyes snapped towards me, staring at me directly. I returned her gaze with an expectant expression on my face.

We watched each other for what seemed like forever. I analysed every detail of the soft features of her face to see if she had changed in the slightest. Her lips were just as plump, her nose just as straight. But her cheeks were thinner, cheekbones more prominent – she had lost weight. Her eyes didn't have the same depth that they had done when we were together those blissful years – they were glassy, unemotional. She had a pale pallor, her skin closer to grey than the rosebud pink I had known and coveted.

I felt as though I was staring blankly into a mirror and seeing my face reflected back at me, albeit imprinted onto hers. My heart leapt at our mutual misery – now, at last, we could love each other in the way that Fate had planned for us – we could stay together forever, utterly involved with each other until the very end of our lives; where she would go, I would follow, and vice versa I felt.

In that split second of our gazes meeting, I saw our future span out before me. Visions flashed through my head of Bella in a stunning white dress walking towards me with the typically shy, expectant expression of a bride. Another: us walking hand in hand on a beach in the Caribbean at sunset, hands entwined, the unmistakeable air of the post-coital honeymooners' love whirling around us. And yet another: three children, two brunette brothers, and a strikingly beautiful red-haired girl. Jesus, and another: us sitting on two rockers, waving the youngest girl off with a tall, dark man. And the last, heartbreaking and evocative: us, grey-haired and ancient, lying on a single bed, limbs entwined, still and lifeless.

That word – _lifeless_ – rung a bell somewhere inside of me, and my wayward thoughts were brought back to the present. Somehow, that word didn't resonate with me anymore, now that she was back in my life.

My body, so exhilarated and alive, was immediately drawn to her, and I took a stiff step towards her; my face absolutely focused on hers. We were fascinated by each other; I didn't know whether it was the re-acclimatisation of our faces or presences that captured us. To tell the truth, I didn't care.

Bella's luscious red mouth opened, and I caught a glimpse of her shiny pink tongue underneath the dim lights of the club. My arms automatically rose, my hands stretched out towards her face. My palms tingled, readying themselves for the electric burn of her warm flesh against my skin.

But as soon as my fingers stretched towards her delicate face, the captivated expression broke, and her eyebrows furrowed, that fascinating mouth turning down in an unhappy curve. Her slender hands came up to my forearms and pushed them back down to my sides with surprising strength. Even through the substantial wool of my suit, I could feel the imprint of her hands on my arms, burning through my skin in a glorious rush of warmth.

"W-what are you doing?" her voice was shaky, but rough and harsh – this wasn't what I expected.

I mouthed noiseless gibberish, my mind suddenly blank. I didn't know what to say; I didn't know what to do. My expectations and hopes were ripped out from underneath me in one cruelly dictioned question.

Her hand grabbed at my arm again, her fingers twisting the grey material of my suit as she dragged me directly through the dance floor; scattering dancing couples as we go.

I didn't care about the confused stares following us; my heart was preparing itself for another possible healing, or fatal blow.

She took me outside of the club, into the car park. The glint of hundreds of shining cars was evident in the lights emanating from the building, but there weren't any people. That was good, I remember thinking. I didn't want our reunion, however joyous it may be, to be witnessed. I wanted it to be private, intimate. Then, I wanted to walk back into that building with my arm proudly around her waist as an explicit claim that she was mine and I was wholly hers, proving to those whom we love that we were together and happy and alive. And as proof to those we didn't love, too – the broad face of Jacob Black came to mind.

I noticed that it was raining. Heavy drops hit Bella's face as she looked up at me, a despairing expression haunting her features – her eyebrows were upturned, her eyes shining with tears, and her mouth was slightly open with a definite downward curve.

"Edward," my name came out of her lips as a sigh, saturated with pity. Her eyes implored mine, burning as if to convey something to me. I didn't understand. Two fucking medical degrees and I don't fucking understand one look.

"Did you even _try _to move on?" her eyes flicked between mine and she bit her lip, hard – like she did when she was nervous, or under pressure, or about to disappoint someone.

The realisation hits me like a brick. She was really not mine anymore. This 'breaking up' façade she had played me was no fantasy of hers – she was really gone. I was no more than a figment of her memory, a high school crush that had turned into a relationship for a while – no more. I suddenly lost my breath as the crushing realisation pummelled into my very being. I felt like I was being slowly stretched apart, until my soul was nothing more than a thin strand of thread, ready to break at any second.

I fell to my knees – my legs weren't fit to hold my weight – and curled over, my hands covering my face as I shook with the overwhelming effort of crying for something that never was and never will be. I choked on my own tears, the sobs suffocating me with their intensity.

Lifting my head, my eyes searched hers, desperately trying to find some semblance of a cruel joke, or some sadistic test, but I found nothing.

I could see the raindrops splashing openly on her face; her make up was running and she's never looked more beautiful, my heart reminded myself in some disgusting, masochistic movement, and her cheeks were blackening, but the candid emotion on her face is something that will always be appealing to me – it triggered my instinct to love and hold and protect.

The past months, I had clung onto the hope that she would come back to me, that our time apart would merely be some phase she was going through, to see if she could survive without me, to explore sex with other men, to find herself without the stereotype of the high school sweetheart. But that hope had been nothing more than that – a mere desire that would never be fulfilled. Now I was devoid of that, for with that one statement she had torn out any semblance of human left in me and destroyed it before my very eyes.

My tears started to choke me, and I struggled to gain some sort of control over my body by taking deep, shuddering breaths – an anxiety attack wouldn't have benefited either of us.

"Why?" I managed to rasp. I knew that it was a loaded question. I wanted a reason for her exit and her permanent absence from my life. I wanted a reason for why she wouldn't come back. I wanted a reason for why she was with him. I wanted a reason for why she didn't love me anymore.

I sensed her presence next to me, and her warm hands ran through my rain-soaked hair, tugging on the roots slightly, bringing my head up to face her. I realised that she was crying, too, tears running down her heartbroken face in grey rivulets – it looked like she was crying black blood. It was a horrifyingly haunting image – one that, at that moment, was more suited to my tortured face than hers.

"I-I can't." she managed to choke out, her voice breaking halfway through. Her fingers tugged on my hair one more time, shaking my head roughly for one brief second, before she left me forever, staggering away in her sodden high heels to a large, dark figure standing by the club's door – I recognised it as Jacob Black, and my heart wrenched again, triggering another wave of anguished cries.

She ran to his side and buried her face into the crook of his elbow. He welcomed her into his arms and swung her coat over her shoulders as they walked down the street, merging into one shapeless unit without even a second glance back at the emotionless zombie behind them.

My hands fell to the tarmac and I cried into my upturned palms. The shuddering movement pushed my knuckles into the rough road, and the pain seemed to soothe some of the turmoil swirling in my belly.

I don't know how long I stayed out there. All I know is that, somehow, I managed to pick myself up and staunch the flow of tears for long enough to find my way back into the club. Alice found me as soon as I walked, drenched and empty, through the door. Her hands found my cheeks, and I sensed Emmett, my father and Jasper behind me, ready to support me if necessary. I pushed away any comfort they offered me, warned them not to try to contact me and wished Alice another happy birthday before walking back out of the door into the dreary Seattle rain.

My car was at home - I had been planning to drink a lot – and I only realised I had left my wallet in the overcoat still sitting in the cloakroom at the bar fifteen minutes into my walk home. I wandered the streets like a zombie, uninterested in passers by or my surroundings.

Somehow I had managed to find my way. I didn't even realise it at first – I merely found myself in front of a very familiar building. Stumbling up to the foyer, the doorman warmly welcomed me in, and even though I must have looked a wreck – someone who didn't look like they belonged in this smart apartment block, he gave me my key, calling the elevator – obviously I didn't look capable of doing that myself.

The familiar ride up gave me some comfort, I'll admit. I could rest my head against the plush, cushioned walls, and close my eyes as I was transported away from the hells of the ground floor up to the 23rd floor.

The door was open as I stumbled in, and I threw my keys somewhere in the kitchen and chucked my cell phone on the coffee table in front of the TV before heading to the bathroom for a scalding hot shower. I had resolved to try and wash away any painful emotions, any remnants of Bella off of my skin as a sort of cleansing process.

But all it managed to do was bring back reminisces of our times in the shower – me washing your hair, your washing mine, our gyrating sex sessions against the tiles, your familiar freesia shower gel and strawberry shampoo.

After the failed purge, I brushed my teeth and spat out the dregs with disgust – my spit was brown from the scotch, and I hadn't realised how disgusting my breath smelt until my mouth actually tasted clean. With a half decent attempt at taming my hair, I dressed and staggered into the TV room and did the only thing I could do: I called Tanya.

I knew she would offer me the companionship I needed, albeit through rough sex, but I needed to objectify and abuse something. My mind was reeling from the overwhelming emotions gripping my body, and I needed to release their rough stranglehold by channelling their violence into another human being, so that we could share in our pain, both physical and psychological.

Her number was imprinted onto my brain and I dialled it clumsily, my fingers slipping over the keys, wet from the shower and from wiping away the tears that seeped uncontrollably from my eyes. Her phone rang several times, the nasal noise echoing in my head, before it changed to an answer phone message. "Hello, this is Tanya D…"

I hung up before it could finish – there was no point in leaving a voicemail. Either she was there and awake and ready for more self-destruction, or she wasn't.

I ran a rough hand over my face, silently willing my mind to relax and relieve my emotional turmoil. Pinching the bridge of my noise, I forced myself to take several deep breaths, which totally emptied and refilled my lungs in a vain attempt to release some of the pent up emotion. I shook my head a few times before grabbing the mohair blanket from the back of the sofa and pulling it haphazardly over me, trying to focus my attention on the absurd dullness of the snooker game on the giant television.

Sleep overcame me – I was exhausted, my body racked with emotion and my mind unable to cope with the overwhelming thoughts and feelings that Bella's rejection had brought to the surface.

Happier memories were running through my mind: playing 'catch' in our expansive backyard with Carlisle and Emmett as a young boy; being dressed up as a girl by the older and bolder Alice, who used my face as a blank canvas for her toy make-up case; Esme's kind face and tender, healing kisses as I run into the kitchen, my face, palms and knees scraped from a fall in the garden; Emmett's arm holding me in a deadlock as he punches my nose repeatedly after finding out I had slept with, and hurt, Rosalie before their relationship had even begun; the feeling of Bella's warm skin as I carried her away from the classroom that enlightening period in Biology; our first kiss against her truck; our first time, together, in a dark room punctuated by hushed giggles and moans; our first apartment, simple and homely, accessorised by Alice's enthusiastic, over-stylised furniture; our pregnancy scare two years ago – you were crying, I comforted you, although I was really excited and anticipatory about a possible future as a father.

And then the time when my world fell from beneath my feet – that excruciating moment when I had just gotten home from work, flowers in hand, and you sat on the couch, staring straight forward into space, and told me that you didn't love me anymore, and that your new squeeze (I know he meant more to you than that – excuse my bias, I think it is fairly excusable) _Jacob_ was waiting downstairs with a packed car, waiting for you.

That memory ended the sequence of happy moments, indeed ended the reminiscing – there was no more joy in my life after that moment.

I continued to dream.

My restless mind instead took me somewhere else than my past, to this very room, where I lay in the same position I was in now, stretched out on the couch, and covered in the slate grey hairy blanket. My eyes were closed, and my lids fluttering – I was dreaming, my mouth opening and closing noiselessly, and my face twitching into various expressions of torment.

I hear the familiar ring of my landline go off in my head. I don't move; my limbs, it seems, are too heavy, and my sleep too deep to really register that I should get up and answer it. A click signals that the call went to the machine. The huskily feminine voice belongs to Tanya, although its overt sexiness is disrupted by her worried tone, "Edward? Are you there? Are you okay? I saw that you called. Don't do anything stupid, please, p-please – I-I-I need you," she begs and stutters, and the thickness of her voice suggests that she's crying, "Call me back as soon as you get this." Another electronic tone, and the message ends. It comes to me that her words – 'something stupid' – suggest that she's expecting me to kill myself. I bark a laugh and fling my arm over my face, trying to block out the harsh noise and the painful thoughts of Emmett bursting through the front door or my apartment, the concerned faces of my family lurking behind him, their expressions turning to horror as they see my limp body swinging lifeless above the floor--

The phone rings again, interrupting my morbid thoughts, but only once this time – the caller gets diverted directly to the machine. I can tell from the tenor that it's my dad. The voice is detached and deceptively calm – that of a doctor, but there's a distinct undertone of worry. "Edward? It's your mother and me. Could you please call us when you get this? You seemed rather upset before you left Alice's, and we just wanted to make sure you're okay." A threatening feminine voice cuts in – it's Mom's: "Edward if you don't call us back in—" there's a pause, I can just picture her looking at her watch, "—three hours, we're coming over," her voice transforms to become more tender and maternal, "please, honey bee, we just want to make sure you're okay. Love you, sweetie."

Another few minutes, and somebody rings again. The machine picks up the message, this time immediately recognisable from Emmett's gruff, worried tone. "Hi, bro. Just callin' to check in. Rose says hi," underneath that, I hear the distinctive babble of Rosalie scolding him – "I say hi? Fuck, Emmett, the guy just had his heart ripped apart and stamped on by the love his life and I just say _hi_? Jesus fuckin--…" – Emmett continues, and his embarrassed expression is clear in my mind; I snort with humourless laughter into my elbow, "Call me back when you get this. See ya, bro." I hear the 'click' as the message ends.

I turn over onto my side, and pull the throw higher over my head, willing myself to fall back asleep, but my half-slumber is interrupted by a brisk half-ring, before Jasper's soothing tones are transmitted around the room. "Edward, it's Jasper. I called in to work – they're not expecting you. Don't worry about anything – we've got you covered. Take as long as you need – you can thank me later." I appreciate his call on my behalf, it saves me the effort and pitying questions from the nurses, and gives me the opportunity to wallow some more.

Instead of ringing this time, the next caller gets immediately directed to the machine. It's Alice – and she's hysterical. I briefly wonder where Jasper's calming influence is, before my thoughts are pervaded by her shrillness. "Edward? Pick up the damn phone," the voice growls, and then lightens with worry, "Edward? Please? I want to make sure you're okay. I got a text from Bella – she wanted your number. Expect a call or a message or something. I'm sorry – I couldn't say no; she sounded like absolute shit. I love you. Call me back, like, right away. Love you again." And then she hung up.

The mention of Bella's name piqued my interest, and in some sort of strange irony only present in the dream world I'm in, it's her voice that I hear next. The click of the machine echoes around the room, before she speaks in a heartbroken tone. Her voice sounds strangled with tears, and I let out an unintentional whimper for her, my heart clenching briefly – she shouldn't feel guilty – she was merely following her heart. "E-Edward, I'm sorry for everything. I want to see you; I need to talk to you. Where do you live? Call me as soon as you get this. I-it's, uh, Bella by the way."

I snap out of my sleep at this voicemail, and jump up, leaving the blanket in a tangled mess on the floor. I walk over to the table on an impulse and press the 'Messages' button. The first one is not from Tanya, as in my dream, but from my parents. It's along the same lines as the other, but with a slightly different wording. The same happens with Emmett's message, and Jasper's. I feel a sense of relief that reality didn't interfere with my dream, and that Alice's message isn't real.

But then the telephone lady's voice comes on, brisk and flat, "incoming message." My stomach plummets into the depths of my torso and I'm gripped by worry, my feet frozen to the smooth wooden floor. Shaking violently, my hands struggle to find the button to listen to the new message. It's Alice's – and the wording is exactly the same, which means that Bella did call, and that another message is awaiting me on the recorder.

Lo and behold, Bella's voice rings out loud and tear-choked, stuttering my name in a despairing tone. She's still looking for my address. _Jesus._

The shock grips me further. I stumble over to my cell, hitting my shin against the coffee table, but reach over and grab at my phone regardless. My hands are shaking as I try to find her number – I can't remember if I deleted it or not. I struggle to type in 'B' in my contacts search. By the time I manage to get 'Bel', I realise that my search is in vain – 'no contacts found' is explicit enough.

I streak back to the message machine, fumbling desperately with the box, my finger hitting several buttons before pressing the 'options' button. The robot lady's voice seems louder than before, amplified by the tension hanging thick in the room, and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"Press one for your messages." I press it hurriedly, my finger slamming down against the box violently – it ricochets away, and I have to partially climb over the sideboard, struggling to bring it back to me. "You have six saved messages. Message one, left at…" I cut her off, pressing the 'erase' button.

"Deleted," the voice bleats out.

"Message two, lef--"

"Deleted."

"Message thr—"

"Deleted."

I repeat the process until I reach "Message six, left at three fifty-six a.m." I wait, with baited breath, as Bella's voice plays out again – does she leave a number? My fingers squeeze the machine, making the cheap plastic crack under pressure as her tearful voice comes to an end – she doesn't leave me her number. Panic starts to set in, and I struggle to keep my breathing in control as the robot plays out the options: "to listen to the message again, press two. To delete the message, press three. For the caller's name and number, press four."

My finger pushes triumphantly into the 'four' key, and I hold my breath, my heart nearly beating out of my chest as I wait for the machine to retrieve and dictate the information I so desperately need.

"Caller left no information – private number. To listen to your messages…"

I fall to my knees for the second time that night, in utter futility of the situation. My face crumples into my folded arms as I start to cry again. I don't know what to do –

And then the voicemail machine clicks its familiar 'click' again – a sign of a new, incoming message.

My sobbing immediately ceases as my eyes are trained onto the little black voicemail machine that holds the key to a complete, happy life.

"Edward? Edward?" Bella's panic-stricken voice comes through, and I immediately dive for the phone – only to find it not in its usual place. The receiver is there, but the handset itself is not plugged in. My eyes scan the room desperately, trying to find the fucking thing, but it's nowhere to be seen. I'm torn – I need to find the phone to either catch the end of Bella's call, or to type in her number and call her back immediately.

I grab the voicemail machine, and hold the speaker right next to my ear, obsessed with listening to every word of her call. "Edward, I got your address off of Alice. I'm in a cab on the way over. You need to know that—"

And then there's a squeal of tyres and a short, bloodcurdling scream – one that I know to implicitly to be Bella's – and a keening collision of metal against metal. My blood runs cold and my fingers grip the edge of the sideboard until my knuckles go white. I am gripped by my panic. I start to fumble with the machine, trying desperately to listen to the message again for another clue. I'm turning it around in my hands, trying to find the 'repeat' button.

I can't think of anything except for whether she's alive or not. My mind is racing, the same question whizzing through my thoughts: "did she survive? Did she survive? Did she survive?"

My mouth starts to murmur those three same words again and again, the volume increasing and getting louder and louder until I'm shouting them, tears streaming down my cheeks.

I'm sobbing against the sideboard, pushing and pulling the machine, pressing each button again and again in utter helplessness, that pivotal question still in the forefront of my existence.

"Did she survive? Did she survive? Did she survive?"


End file.
